No Place Like Home
by digitalfletch
Summary: The last few scenes of "Honey", and what happens afterward, viewed from Cal's perspective.
1. Chapter 1

Cal Lightman sat at the bar, nursing his neat scotch. After the day he'd just had he could take a bath in the stuff and it wouldn't begin to make a difference, but then again it wasn't the liquor he was here for.

His companion ran a hand through her shiny black tresses and smiled at him. "So, describe your ideal woman."

The words crowded into his mind unbidden. _She's smart, beautiful, charming, perceptive as hell. Trustworthy, loyal, sometimes to a fault. Bit of a smart ass when she wants to be. Tolerant and forgiving, with the warmest heart in the world. She's like – sunlight, after you thought you'd never see the sun again._

But that wasn't the difficult question. The real conundrum was not how he felt about her, it was how she felt about him.

The drink relaxed him enough to let the truth spill out. "Well, I could describe her until the cows come home but, the real question is whether or not I'm her ideal man."

"You never know 'till you try, right?"

_Until you try._ He'd wrestled for weeks now about whether to try. But there had been so many changes in her life lately, and she'd just been through so much grief with Alec – Cal wanted her to have the certainty that she could always count on him as a friend. He didn't want to risk losing the infinitely precious camaraderie that they shared by revealing that he wanted more. It would be selfish – and god knew he was a selfish bastard, but he wasn't _that_ selfish. For the time being he was content for things between them to stay the way they were. For the time being.

It wasn't an appropriate thought to say aloud in this company, so instead he gave a brief nod, conceding the point.

"Why don't we give it a shot?" A seductive smile gleamed on his companion's artfully polished lips. "Order some room service. They serve warm honey here, right?"

Cal took his time considering the offer. She was his type. Tall, dark and sensual, with full wide lips and eyes to die for. Definitely his type.

She was Zoë, all over again.

And he didn't want that, not any more. What the hell was he doing sitting here? He knew where he wanted to be. Setting one hand lightly on her arm, he said, "I shouldn't be here." Watched the inviting smile on her face dissolve into an annoyed grimace. "I'm sorry."

He left the bar without a backward glance.

-----

He climbed the steps outside her apartment and knocked on the door before he could change his mind.

She answered the door casually dressed in jeans, a white shirt and beige sweater. "Hey."

"Hey."

Now that he was here, he had no idea what to say. They stood awkwardly. The easy familiarity that had always characterized their relationship seemed to have suddenly deserted them, leaving him feeling acutely uncomfortable, almost bereft. Helplessly he fell back on their usual routine of talking about work. "Uh, Zancanelli confessed to Connie's murder, so…"

She nodded, replied quietly, "Yeah, I heard."

_Stupid_. Of course she'd heard. She'd been at the office all afternoon, helping Reynolds sort out the arrest with the local police. Helping Loker and Torres clean up the mess in the AV lab. Calling the staff to let them know everything was all right. All the things he should have been doing himself, but hadn't.

Then she'd probably sat in his office for most of the evening, hoping that he would come back. Wondering how he was, where he was, yet having the sensitivity not to call his cell, giving him the time and the space that he needed. And he, thinking only of himself, instead of making even the smallest overture to reassure her, he'd bolted to a bar to chat up a virtual stranger he'd only just met that morning. She deserved better from him than that.

But then, that was self-evident. Her eyes were still red and puffy, her cheeks tracked with dried tear stains. She'd been hurting – was still hurting – and it was all because of him. The thought filled him with remorse. "I'm sorry I ran out like that."

She shook her head, absolving him without any apparent hesitation. "Yeah, everybody's dealing with it in their own way." Letting him off the hook, when she should be chiding him for his idiotic thoughtlessness. "I'm just –" a big, relieved smile – "I'm just glad you're all right."

For a moment he just reveled in the light of her smile that seemed to radiate into the darkest reaches of his soul. Knowing he could drown in that smile, in those bright eyes that exuded compassion and empathy like twin beacons of hope and repose.

"How's your head?" she asked, reaching up toward the wound on his temple.

He shied away from her like a spooked horse. "Ah, ooh – uh, fine," he said, too quickly.

"Ok." She slid her hands towards her jeans pockets, her body language withdrawing away from him, away from the sting of rejection. The sad, wounded look in her eyes cut him to the quick.

Cal silently cursed himself in several languages. Yet again he'd hurt her, however inadvertently. He let her down, he disappointed her… it was exactly as he'd told Matheson. Sometimes he felt the guilt like a heavy rock in his gut – guilt that he was contaminating her, that he was dragging her down into his dirty world where violence continually lurked and lies and deceit were the banal currency of life.

But he knew if she touched him now it would be his undoing.

He stepped quickly up into the doorway, trying to reduce the unbearable distance he had just put between them. Eager to atone. He was going to say this to her anyway, but now was suddenly a really good time. "Listen, I was thinking about that whole, um…accounts thing, that whole billing thing, you know. We'd be working out of a shoebox if it wasn't for you so –" he shrugged – "it's all yours. And I'll respect that."

To his great surprise she shook her head in adamant refusal. "No, no, no. No, no, you're right, I mean, cheating spouse cases, you know…we're…we're better than that."

"All right." Her solidarity with him warmed his heart, and all at once it felt as though they were once again in sync, that the vital, vibrant connection that had always pulsed between them had been restored to normal service. It was as if the whole world, for a moment having gone alarmingly fuzzy and out of whack, suddenly snapped back into crisp, sharp focus.

But he didn't want her agreeing with him merely out of sympathy. Her head should make that decision, not her heart. "Well, whatever you decide, all right?"

"Ok," she replied.

"All right, then." Good, that was settled. He turned away from her and started reluctantly for the stairs, feeling with every step a visceral tug back in the direction from which he'd come.

He pulled himself up short. What was he doing? This was Gillian he was talking to, Gillian he was walking away from yet one more time.

Today again he'd witnessed first hand her inner strength, far greater than his own. Strong enough to fight for his life. Strong enough to save it. And yet he could plainly see the toll the situation had taken on her, the exhaustion and strain still etched in her face. He hadn't even asked how she…

He turned back towards the house where she remained framed in the doorway. "Listen, I popped by really just to see how you were doing, yeah?" His voice trailed off as he focused on her properly for the first time since he'd arrived.

She shrugged, tried for a tremulous half-smile. "I'm ok."

He could see in her eyes that it wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't a lie either. He couldn't hide the relief in his voice. "Good."

"Where's Emily?"

Trust Gillian to spare a thought for his family. He felt his mood lift a little for the first time since he'd escaped the office. "She's at her mum's."

A sympathetic murmur, "Mmmm."

"I haven't told them about all of this yet." Dropping his eyes. He wasn't ready. Not yet.

She nodded, her gaze fixed on his face with an open, comforting expression, her blue eyes shimmering in the dim light. Waiting patiently for him to take the conversation in whichever direction he wanted it to go. Silently signaling that she was willing to wait all night if that was what it would take.

_Come on Cal_, he lectured himself, _just tell her what you really want_. Well, not everything he wanted, not yet, but what he wanted right now. And what he wanted right now – what he needed right now – was a refuge, a haven, a restful place away from lies, guns, violence and the threat of sure and sudden death. A place, at least for tonight, where he would feel at home.

Normally the office was his home away from home, but there was no way in hell he was going back there now. Nor was he going to go sit alone in his empty house. Oh, he could phone Zoë, ask to have Emily tonight, and she would understand. Probably. But amazingly that wasn't what he wanted either. Finally screwing up his courage to the sticking point, he said, "Can I sleep in your spare bedroom tonight, if it's not too much of a bother?"

She smiled, her eyes still watery. "Of course."

Cal nearly sagged with relief. Even as the words left his lips he'd been sure he couldn't handle it if the answer turned out to be 'no'. "Oh. Good," he mumbled, once again taking the step up into the living room.

This time as he drew close Gillian reached out, laying gentle hands on his chest. The light from the room behind her lit her hair like a halo. "Hey," she said softly, then slid her arms around his shoulders and gathered him into a warm embrace.

She drew him to her tightly and Cal reflexively leaned into her hold, anchoring himself against her slender body. Closing his eyes he just breathed into her, centering on her scent, the sensation of her heart beating strong against his chest, the warmth of her hands resting on his back. Feeling the almost unbearable tension of the day begin to ebb from his body.

Then for an instant she was clinging to him with a fierce, almost frantic strength.

Just as abruptly she released him, and as he walked past her into the living room he leaned in to place a quick kiss on her cheek, grateful to her beyond words. He knew what his coming here tonight meant in the depths of his heart. When he thought of a haven, a refuge, he thought of Gillian Foster. Home was wherever she was.

-----

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thank you all for the amazing (and slightly overwhelming) response to this story, in return for which here is part 2. Hope it doesn't disappoint.

-----

Cal ambled into Gillian's living room, shrugging out of his coat which she took from him and went to hang in a hall closet. He'd never been in this new apartment before, but found that the room was cozy and comfortable, a mirror of the woman herself.

"Listen, I don't want to be a bother, right?" he insisted. "Just go back to –" he gestured to the room in general – "whatever it was you were doing."

She glanced over her shoulder at him as she closed the closet door. "As it happens, I was about to have a drink. Care to join me?"

He looked into the next room at the bottle of California Pinot Noir sitting out on the dining room table. He was more of a beer and scotch man himself, but under the present circumstances he wasn't about to be difficult. "Yeah, sure."

She poured out and passed him a glass. They each swirled their wine, their eyes following the circular flow of the glistening liquid. Cal knew this was the traditional time for a toast, but he was damned if he could think of anything appropriate. Just now everything in the world seemed worth celebrating, yet nothing in particular worth singling out. A glance at Gillian told him similar thoughts were going through her head.

"To life," he offered finally, and was relieved to see her preoccupied expression melt into a slight smile.

"To life," she echoed as they clinked their glasses. "L'Chaim."

She ushered him back into the living room, sat on the couch as he settled into a nearby armchair.

He looked at the various magazines and journals scattered around the room for clues as to how she'd been spending the evening. "So you've been what, reading?"

She didn't reply, but evaded his gaze by staring down into her wineglass. So that wasn't it. Not watching TV, the remote was all the way across the room. Not on the phone, which was nowhere to be seen. "Sitting around worrying about me?"

Her eyes flicked up to his for a brief moment, giving him his answer. He gripped his bottom lip between his teeth, mentally kicking himself. "I'm sorry, luv," he said again. "I –"

She interrupted almost immediately. "It's ok, Cal. Really. We all have to deal with it in our own way," she repeated.

"Well, I'm here now." He hoped that counted for something.

Her lips twitched. "Yes, you are."

They sat in companionable silence, finishing their wine without feeling the need to fill the space between them with idle conversation. Cal was about to ask her if she wanted another glass when he caught her muffling a yawn behind one hand.

"Sorry, luv, I'm keeping you up." What time was it now, he wondered. Midnight? Later?

"No," she quickly denied. "You're not. I'm just…" her clear voice faltered for a moment, then she looked down and carried on in a near whisper, "I'm not sure I can go to sleep just yet."

He nodded. After what they'd been through today… He was half afraid that when he closed his eyes to try to sleep all he would see would be the slate grey barrel of a gun pointed at his head. That all he would hear would be the sharp sound of a trigger being cocked in his ear, that all he would feel would be stone cold metal pressed against the back of his neck. He knew this was partly what had driven him to come here tonight. And although it felt like a weakness to be concealed at all costs, she had trusted him enough to reveal her vulnerability, so he could do the same.

"Tell you the truth, I'm not sure I can either."

He'd been a heartbeat away from being killed this afternoon. Reaching up he gingerly fingered his torn scalp. His souvenir of the day's events and now a welcome distraction. The wound was puffy and tender and starting to hurt like hell. He'd washed it out in the restroom at the bar, but if he didn't do a proper job of cleaning it soon it was liable to be very ugly come morning.

"Uh," he looked over at Gillian, "do you have some alcohol pads or something I could clean this with?"

She nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, returning after a few moments with a clutch of items in her hands. He looked over the selection of swabs, bandages and tape she proffered, and had a sudden idea of how he might be able to make up for what had happened earlier.

"Maybe…would you mind –" he pointed at his temple.

Her eyes flared with warmth. "No, no, of course." She set her load of materials onto the end table and perched on the arm of his chair. With quiet concentration she spread an antibiotic ointment on a small gauze bandage, covered the edges with tape and then leaned in with an alcohol pad in hand.

The touch of the burning, cleansing swab on his open wound caused him to flinch and hiss in pain, although he managed to suppress an outright yelp.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said immediately, withdrawing her hand as her brow crinkled with concern for him.

He raised his hands to wave away her apologies. "No, it's ok." Grimacing, "I just hate this bit."

"I'll be quick," she promised, and set again about her task.

He diverted himself by watching her out of the corner of his eye as she tended to him, almost afraid to move, quietly relishing her nearness. Mesmerized by her feline grace and poise. She looked worn and haggard and so, so beautiful. More beautiful than the seductive youngster he met this morning could ever hope to be.

He felt her careful fingers affix the bandage to his skin and exhaled a low sigh. He was so bloody tired, but his treacherous brain just wouldn't let him rest. Instead he flashed back to the computer room – Matheson holding the gun to the back of his head – and Gillian standing just inside the doorway, trembling with fear for him, her luminous eyes spilling over with tears. Begging for his life.

"_Foster,"_ he'd repeated, his voice low and grating, eyes pleading. Deliberately using her last name. It was the only thing he could say to warn her not to show their foe a weakness he could exploit, and the only thing he could do to beg her to just get out of there, get out of harm's way.

And she'd done as he silently asked, made a heroic effort to compose herself and leave the room. Leave him behind. Putting all the weight of saving him squarely on her own shoulders without a second's hesitation.

A sharp sound broke into his reverie and he looked up just in time to see Gillian place one hand over her mouth, trying desperately to choke back a sob as the intent expression on her face dissolved into one of raw anguish, the acute distress in her eyes mutely signaling a quickly crumbling facade.

Instantly he was on his feet and wrapping one arm tight around her shoulders. She tried half-heartedly to push away but he refused to let go, refused to withdraw whatever small consolation his presence could provide. He was saddened though hardly surprised that the reaction from the day's events was finally hitting her, but it shattered his heart to see her in such pain.

He drew her onto the couch, sitting so close that their knees touched. Gillian continued to weep soundlessly, tears sliding noiselessly down her face like raindrops down a windowpane. Leaning back he gently pulled her down against his shoulder, feeling the moisture on her cheeks soaking through the thin material of his shirt.

"Shhh," he murmured soothingly. "I'm here, luv, I've got you."

"I'm so glad you're all right," she whispered brokenly into his neck. "I didn't know what else to do. I…I knew you wouldn't want Matheson to have a shot at Zancanelli, but…he was so close to the breaking point – I didn't think there was any choice when Eli suggested we pull the ruse. It was the only chance we had…"

"Guess we're gonna have to put him back on the payroll," he murmured into her hair, feeling an answering nod against his chest.

Cal sat back comfortably on the couch, holding her close. The soothing balm of her proximity was calming the turmoil in his mind at last, and he was more than content to sit this way for the rest of the night if necessary. He turned his cheek into her dark blond hair, his breath stirring the fine silken strands, stroking her arm in a slow, steady rhythm that he hoped was vaguely comforting. According to Zoë he'd never been very good at this sort of thing.

After an endless moment she loosed a deep sigh and raised her head to look up at him, offering a small, watery smile.

He returned the smile with his eyes, easing but not fully releasing his hold, continuing to watch her closely. Her tears had ceased but her flawless face was still damp with moisture – he lifted one hand to her cheek and with the pad of his thumb began to gently, carefully, wipe away the wetness. The realization that she cared about him so greatly was almost overwhelming.

"Thank you," he said, very softly, unable to hide the tenderness that choked his voice.

Her eyes signaled a wordless question.

"For saving my life."

Her corners of her lips curved upward slightly and she nodded, then laid her head once more on his shoulder.

He held her for a long time, feeling more than hearing her soft breathing eventually slow and even out. When he dared look down at her face again her eyes were closed. Sleeping, her face relaxed and the lines of tension and worry beginning to smoothen away.

Cal pressed a feather-light kiss to the top of her head, breathing in quiet exaltation that she had found some measure of solace in his arms. It was Gillian whom he always turned to for comfort, and right now nothing gave him greater satisfaction than the knowledge that tonight he was able to repay the tiniest quality of her mercy. He gazed around the room at the comfy furniture, the attractive colors of the fabrics and walls, and back down to the sleeping woman nestled trustingly against his side.

Yes, there really was no place like home.

-----

FIN


End file.
